These days, rock fans around the world expect a certain level of discographic homogeneity from their stars. U2 might release different EPs, singles and even greatest-hits packages in various countries around the globe, but in when it comes to indentifying their primary releases (The Joshua Tree, War, All That You Can't Leave Behind, et al.) just about everybody in the world is in agreement.
This wasn't always the case. Before the 1970s, it was quite common for the discographies of rock stars to differ from nation to nation, market to market. Hardcore record collectors specializing in Beatles and Rolling Stones memorabilia know this all too well. Many of the groups' most iconic albums underwent radical alterations when making the trip from the United Kingdom to the States. This was due to crass commercialism, quite honestly. London Records, The Stones' American label, wanted to saturate the American market with as much product as possible. Thus, they made a habit of removing songs from albums (released in England on the Decca label originally) and coupling them with single-only tracks in order to produce even more albums to hawk. (Interesting aside: back in the day the British record-buying public thought it bad form to include singles on albums, as well as to pull singles from albums. They were seen as independent media.)
Between 1964 and '69, The Stones released eight albums, two greatest-hits collections and a pair of EPs in the U.K. Here in the United States, the numbers were 10 albums, two greatest-hits collections, a live record and a full-length, 1967's Flowers, that fell somewhere between album and compilation. As a result, old-school American fans have fond memories of titles the Brits didn't even know existed: England's Newest Hit Makers, The Rolling Stones, Now!, December's Children (And Everybody's) and, of course, the aforementioned Flowers.
I'm of the belief the original British versions are the better records. First off, London Records forced us Yanks to purchase a lot of music twice. The American Out of Our Heads consists of 12 tracks, four of which were also released via the 45 format: "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," "The Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man," "Play with Fire" and "The Last Time." That means we paid full album price for just eight new songs. Then there's the issue of artistic quality. This becomes quite evident when comparing the U.S. versions of Aftermath and Between the Buttons to their U.K. counterparts. The latter are so much more cohesive and fully realized that they're practically different records. Between the Buttons in particular is an interesting case; because London Records gutted the thing, American rock critics failed to embrace it quite like the British pop press did; different versions spawned different legacies.
The thing about Christmas music is you either love it or hate it. There isn't usually much middle ground. For those of us who love it, the warble of Alvin & The Chipmunks' "Christmas (Don't Be Late)" and Bobby Helms' rockabilly-ing "Jingle Bell Rock" are welcome at least the first 10,000 times we'll hear them—in the car, in the supermarket, in our sleep—between now and December 25th. For those poor souls who have to spend the next month or so trying (unsuccessfully) to get that seizure-inducing "Carol of the Bells" song out of their heads, we're sorry. You have absolutely no use for the list below. But, if you're like me and you listen to Darlene Love's "White Christmas" and, especially, her "Marshmallow World" in June, well, have fun, and don't miss Ella Fitzgerald's bangin' "Jingle Bells," the made-for-Jimmy-Buffett wonder "Mele Kalikimaka" by Bing Crosby, the backup singers in Elvis' "Blue Christmas" or any of Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas.
You provide the eggnog and mistletoe (or dreidel and menorah); we'll provide the tunes. That's how holidaze work around here. Of course we've got all the eternal carols and trusty standbys about winter wonderlands, sleigh rides, jingle bells, frosty snowmen, drummer boys, feliz navidads, Santa Claus coming to town and/or Mommy kissing him, God resting merry gentlemen, and chestnuts roasting on open fires — many of them harmonized by legendary girl groups or Motowners or recent rock/pop/R&B stars. And we've got all your favorite ubiquitous seasonal standards of less antiquated vintage, too — from 
Happy holidaze, people! 
Though the South has long been mythologized as the birthplace of the blues, country music and jazz, in the 1980s the region spawned a cluster of quirky bands — often tagged "college rock" — that would lay the foundation for alternative pop and indie rock, both of which took shape by decade's end. The sound these groups crafted was simple, but deliciously effective: a scruffy DIY fusion of post-punk's nervous energy, power-pop hooks and chiming folk-rock from the 1960s.
Hopefully, the release of the five-disc 
Determining the No. 1 album for this month's installment of Rhapsody's Rock Roundup was a no-brainer: The Beach Boys' Smile Sessions box set. The five-disc package compiles the recordings for the band's lost masterpiece, which was supposed to have come out in 1967 and turn the band into the high princes of psychedelic art-pop. As for other archival releases that charted, there's an expanded edition of Achtung Baby, U2's 1992 foray into electronic-tinged club rock, and Sting's 25 Years collection, a meticulous overview of his post-
A quarter-century after its release (feel old now?), it is somewhat amusing, amazing and perplexing to remember that, way back then, 
Devoted readers of The Mix (hi, mom!) might remember that my last 
An annual celebration of the legacy of synthesizer inventor and engineer Robert Moog, Moogfest might seem like an odd place for a classic rock fan to search for the rawk. But I have my reasons. 
Only in its second year, Moogfest has quickly become one of the United States' more diverse and cutting-edge music festivals. It's also one of the country's most scenic. Taking place in Asheville, N.C., on Halloween weekend (October 28-30), the three-day event will be awash in the fiery reds and incandescent yellows that dot the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains in late autumn.
"I got my toes in the water/ Ass in the sand/ Not a worry in the world/ A cold beer in my hand," begins 
The singer-songwriter movement is generally depicted as an outgrowth of the 1960s folk revival. Near decade's end, as the story goes, denim-clad bards and feathery songbirds such as James Taylor, Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne shifted folk music's gaze off the world outside, including all its myriad political and social crises, and cast it upon humanity's inner realms (i.e. questions addressing emotional and psychic health, existential inquiry, love, relationships, even faith). Though these artists pushed folk into an orbit closer to pop's sonic palette, their music remained predominantly acoustic, centering around the solo performer as well.
"Heavy psych." Just the words themselves sound cool. When someone says a band plays heavy psych, you immediately at least have an idea of what you're in for. Specifically, super loud guitars, howling feedback and long floating sections that sound like you're docking your space craft on, um, Uranus. Or maybe Saturn. Anyway, fun, fun, fun. 
In the early 1970s, decades before sexuality and gender in high school life became a CNN news bite, a music trend came along that slyly packaged these issues inside a lot of killer rock 'n' roll. I'm talking about glam — or, as that legendary arbiter of pop fad Dick Clark disturbingly called it back in 1973, the "fag-drag crazy transsexual rock scene."
With this installment of Rhapsody's 
A massive prog fan (and once a teenage nerd himself), 
This, the October installment of our Rock Roundup series, is packed with so much music it's really quite obnoxious. But how does one not err on the side of unchecked inclusivity when Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, Nirvana, Lindsey Buckingham, Wilco, Jimi Hendrix, The Grateful Dead and Pearl Jam all release what amounts to a tidal wave of new joints, anthologies, remastered classics, archival releases and albums never before available on Rhapsody?
I've made a personalized mixtape every month for the last five years, combining au courant new hits, old favorites, random stuff overheard in convenience stores, Songs of Personal Emotional Relevance (the one from August 2008 mostly involves my wedding, which explains, for example, "
"
Even though the guitars in "
This new 
Long before Steven Tyler starting leering at teenage girls on American Idol, long before Alicia Silverstone was contractually obligated to appear in all their videos, hell, long before even "Rag Doll," Aerosmith were the biggest, baddest boogie-rock band in all the land. And with all apologies to Alicia Silverstone and "Rag Doll," that's the era of Aerosmith we're choosing to focus on as Rhapsody unveils the band's complete back catalog. And so there's the self-explanatory playlist "Old School Aerosmith Effin Rocks," an in-depth exploration of their 1976 masterpiece Rocks, a recounting of Tyler's all-time sleaziest (and therefore best) moments, and a look at the "understated badass" guitarist school of which Joe Perry is a proud member. Time to get back in the saddle again. 
Oxford, Miss.'s Fat Possum Records was founded in 1992 with an initial mission to discover and endorse local blues musicians like 
In the process of putting together this source material, I attempted to track down as much music writing on 
With the arrival of Alice Cooper's new record, Welcome 2 My Nightmare -- a concept-album sequel to his 1975 classic 
As a general rule here at Rhapsody HQ, our editors encourage us to transform our creative juices into raging rapids when concocting these 
So anyway: the extremely sore arm came first. Was initially scared it might be carpal tunnel. Googling suggested otherwise. Was relieved to learn that it being on my right side was good news. (Left can be a sign of heart failure!) Doctor prescribed exercises and ointments and ice packs. Very weird, since I don't play tennis, but so be it. 
We all reacted to the horrible events of September 11, 2001, in our own ways — wherever we were, whatever we were doing, whichever CD or radio station or fizzy pop single we first reached for to help us cope. Here, Rhapsody's editors offer their own musical perspectives, from saber-rattling country to hopeful worship music, from pop-punk bromides to plaintive protest songs, from the momentary tentativeness of comedy to the fieriness of hip-hop to the transcendence of jazz. As Sonny Rollins put it, "Maybe music can help. I don't know, but we have to try something." Here's what we tried. 
In the immortal words of 
Psychedelic rock has always been pretty global by definition, in a misty, crystalline, incense-and-peppermints kind of way. In its '60s and '70s heyday, the influences of psychedelia — drugs, sitars, mysterious religions, political ideologies — traveled along a crisscrossing bohemian circuit of exotic locales from India to Morocco to Guatemala. At the same time, local musicians in each of those places and many more joined the trip themselves. Psychedelic artists like Ethiopia's 
Life seemed so much simpler in the '80s, and for me at least, our music and how we listened to it reflected that. The day after my senior prom, my friends and I gathered at a local beach and cranked up our boom boxes. Let me be clear: the music that came flooding out of those speakers is nothing I'm proud of. I know some of my teen counterparts were exploring edgy underground bands, but my suburban friends and I were happy not to stray too far beyond the constraints of straight-up pop and rock. We listened to what was on the radio and what the local DJs spun at school dances. We didn't know any different, and now those songs are part of our collective memories, like it or not.
The Video Music Awards are Sunday night! Yes, we know, MTV doesn't play videos much anymore. And chances are 
This month's Rock Roundup — a top 10, mind you — mixes current hits with a few classic reissues. The No. 1 slot belongs to an expanded edition of one of my all-time faves, The London Suede's Dog Man Star. When this art-rock epic came out in 1994, it instantly blew away my teenage mind. I had never heard anything quite like it. Over a decadent bed of strings and twisted guitars put together by guitarist Bernard Butler, singer Brett Anderson (who sounds like the perfect mix of 
Born on August 20, 1966, "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott would have turned 45 this week if he hadn't been shot and killed while performing onstage with 
Obits for 
Bow down to Deadmau5, oh ye water-logged masses. Pics by Garrett Kamps.
Just sing, man: CeeLo does his Rock God thing. Pics by Garrett Kamps
Some high school memories aren't so good.
When I tell people I work in the music biz, the first question they ask is the obvious one: "What types of music do you like?" I find this akin to asking a chef their favorite food, or a pedophile their favorite Haley Joel Osment movie. I didn't gravitate toward this field because I wanted to lobby for the cultural merits of early-'80s straight-edge or West Coast cool jazz (though I would, happily, for both). I landed here because I find it endlessly fascinating that so many different types of folks choose to express themselves so differently using music, and that they do it over and over again, and have been for literally millennia. I love the mess of it all, not to mention the fact that it thrives in spite of -- at least in the last 100 or so years -- a massive capitalist machine whose inner workings are as calculating and mechanical as an auto mill's (and this is coming from someone who's part of that machine). It's pretty amazing when you think about it. I mean, like -- take that, painting.
When classic rock nerds such as 
Click here to listen to the entire playlist: 
As a heatwave descends upon the country, Team Rhapsody is ironing its Jantzen bathing suit in anticipation of the twentieth installment of Lollapalooza, August 5-7 in Chicago's Grant Park. If you can't make it, fear not: We shall be in attendance, interviewing artists, snapping photos, and reporting on the various shenanigans (looking at you, 
"It's better to burn out than fade away," goes 
If you're keeping tabs, then you'll surely notice that July's Rock Roundup is radically different from its June predecessor. Such veterans as 
Click here to listen to the entire playlist: 
When you've written about music for as many decades as I have, and you're as addicted as I am to constantly hearing more of it, let's just say that things pile up: all formats, from all manner of dollar bins and thrift stores and garage sales, along with whatever comes in the mail. But that's my problem; as a Rhapsody subscriber, you don't even need to dig through crates, because I've already done it for you! Hence, this all-encompassing playlist of stuff I've been listening to in all physical and digital walks of life lately, its title inspired by 
Welcome to 
Welcome to the final installment of 
Welcome to another edition of 
Ever since fusion devolved into flaccid pop-jazz in the 1980s, the genre has been treated with suspicion by more than a few jazz snobs. In fact, fusion didn't get a fair shake right out of the gate. When Miles Davis went electric and started performing before rock audiences, critics couldn't stop condemning the man. "SELLOUT!" they proclaimed ad nauseam, even though the music he made was wildly challenging and ambitious.
The latest installment of my Rock Roundup column is dominated by legends and icons. Who can argue when Neil Young drops A Treasure, a rootsy live set from the mid-1980s that's heavy on Nashville flavor? And who can resist when Macca releases expanded editions of McCartney and McCartney II? The latter is a stone-cold masterpiece: homemade synth-pop that morphs from quirky to bizarre. There's this one bonus track called "Check My Machine" that sounds like proto-hypnagogic pop! (James Ferraro, you listening?) Also, don't sleep on The Hollies box set that gets an "honorable mentions" shout-out: those dudes were pop badasses. I never tire of "
One aspect of summer that never fails to surprise is that the year is now nearly half over: we are closer to 2011's year-end critics-poll season than we are to 2010's. You've started drafting your own Top 10 list already, right? No? You haven't? Don't panic: here, Rhapsody's genre editors each pick their five favorite records of the year so far. How many will survive until November? Which ones will be replaced by Lil Wayne, by Beyoncé, by the soundtrack to Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark? Time will tell, but for now, here are our picks for the year's best, half a year early. 
Summer jams. Everyone's got one. That song that evokes instant images of sun and fun, that makes you smell the barbecue and taste the daiquiri, that just sings summer to you. But what does your summer jam of choice say about you and, more importantly, your summer personality? We've developed this handy-dandy little guide to psychoanalyzing your summer anthem —or at least finding the perfect drink to pair with it.
I'm attempting to nail two themes with this, my latest cheat sheet. The first is a celebration of summer, of hanging on front porches while cranking killer rock 'n' roll. I know this concept has been slayed to death through the years, but only because it's a durable one. Rock music is capable of speaking to the deepest depths of the soul, as well as the most abstruse pockets of the brain. But oftentimes its most potent powers manifest themselves when in service of nothing more than good times and hanging out. The perfect chair, a rickety porch and sunlight filtered in just the right way can fuse with your favorite jams to elevate summer-month leisure time into something sublime and unique, something that infuses life with real meaning. Example: to this very day, I'll never forget the first time I heard 
First off, there are those who question the very existence of a 
With all these 
The phrase "DEAD FREAKS UNITE" appeared in the liner notes to the 1971 live album 
In the early 1980s, some of the best New Wave bands were actually progressive rock groups. This is a bit of an exaggeration, of course. But not totally untrue, when you think about the super-creative ways in which Yes, Rush, Phil Collins and Queen fused the two genres. Ignoring the fact that punk had declared war on the classic rock fossils of the previous decade, these musicians boldly explored synthesizers, funk-inspired dance grooves, drum machines, sound collage, wiry arrangements and icy production techniques. Some truly great music was produced in the process. The Trevor Horn-produced 90125, the wildly experimental The Game and the titanic Moving Pictures are all bona fide classics. Then there's Collins' Miami Vice masterpiece "In the Air Tonight," one of the most striking (and moodiest) pop songs of the 20th century.
Why is the 
Rock is such an expansive and nebulous genre that it's rather difficult to rank its albums in terms of quality. But hey, I'm game to try anything. Below you'll find what I think are the top 15 rock albums dropped over the last month (give or take a few weeks, of course).
There's a short paragraph in Ed Ward's "Italo-American Rock," an excellent essay that I first encountered in the original edition of The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll, that encapsulates many of the key points I want to make about this thing called East Coast Horn Rock:
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